


Chassé - A Movement in 3 Acts

by Violetwilson



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Ballet AU, Coming of Age, F/M, No Pregnancy, Oneshot, coming of ANGST, love letter to the Vaganova Academy, oneshot that is somehow also a slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26280037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwilson/pseuds/Violetwilson
Summary: The chassé (French for 'to chase') is a dance step used in many dances in many variations. All variations are triple-step patterns of gliding character in a "step-together-step" pattern.Ballet is a form of sculpture, if you think about it.The way Ben danced always made her think about it.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 78
Kudos: 446





	Chassé - A Movement in 3 Acts

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Shannon! Alex said you liked ballet AUs. Hope you like your gift :)
> 
> (Sorry for any typos! I rushed a little to get this out in time! I'm gonna go and proof it tonight)

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

Rey was twenty three, sitting cross-legged in the Coruscant City Ballet studio, whacking her pointe shoes against the practice room floor as hard as she could.

Breaking in shoes was a cathartic and violent ballet ritual, and today of all days, she badly needed the release. 

So she took her brand new pointe-shoes, custom-made for her foot measurements by the pointe-shoe workshop inside the ballet building, and hit them against the ground until the spine of the sole broke in half and the box at the toe of the shoe wasn’t so loud against the floor. 

Then, grabbing a pointy, dog-brush-like tool, she scored the sole near the pad of her foot, adding texture and grip so that she could stay upright easier during the extensive amount of pointe-work required for their current show. 

Prima ballerina. It still didn’t feel real, even after nearly an entire season of having the title, even after working so hard to get here, after all the bruises and the tears and the sweat. 

Rey finished the process of breaking in her shoes by using the heel of her foot to crush the toe box so it would bend with her foot instead of chafing.

 _Ballet is only truly beautiful if you don’t know how brutal it is_ , her grandfather had said to her once. Maybe that was true. Rey hiked up her tights and adjusted her sweater so that it sat right, self-conscious even at the mere memory of her grandfather’s lectures. 

Rose was in the middle of a long-winded argument between her and her sister. 

“—I _told_ you your pliés were too bouncy, and now look at you, the queen of shin splint city—” 

Paige snorted. “Right, fine, talk to me when your frappés are less like you’re trying to pound a _hole_ in the floor—” 

Whirling around, Rose glowered at Rey. “Tell her she’s hormonal and taking her repressed feelings out on me.”

Rey picked up her sewing kit and began to stitch the ribbons onto the side walls of her shoes. “If she’s hormonal, you’re hormonal. Aren’t you both synced up by now?”

Paige crowed. “Ha! Take that!”

Rey turned her attention back to her shoes, snorting at Rose and Paige’s pre-rehearsal banter. Everyone was keyed up and nervous, sniping at each other to get out their tech-week jitters. Taking the scraper brush up again, Rey put her back into grunging up her shoes with a gleeful satisfaction that betrayed her own unsteady nerves. 

And then, for no reason at all, she looked up. 

There was Ben, tall and steady and unreadable as ever in his black practice gear, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a bottle of water in one hand. 

They stared at each other for a minute— and it _was_ a stare, Ben and she were always staring at each other, it would be stupid to call it anything else _but_ a stare— and his lips kind of parted and he lifted a hand up like he might be about to wave to her, and her heart jumped into her throat again, and for a second she forgot to feel tormented about him. 

But then he was interrupted by Hux, grousing about which rehearsal room they’d be booking for their individual solos that night— and the moment snapped, and she was back to feeling brittle. 

Rey turned her face back to her work, wondering if he was still looking at her, and whether it would be worse if he was, or worse if he wasn’t. 

“—Polina Semionova would throw you off the stage like an MMA wrestler before she let you perform one of your jumps—” Rose was insisting, but Rey didn’t hear the rest. 

* * *

**ACT ONE**

* * *

The first time she’d seen him dance, they were both fourteen, and she was half-sure he must be able to fly. 

Her grandfather had leaned over in the seat next to hers, whispering, “He’s about your age, but look at his _knees_. They don't teach them right at the Alderaan Studio. Your form, my girl, is far superior.” 

Rey hadn’t believed her grandfather. She couldn’t believe anyone could possibly be more beautiful than Ben Solo jumping and leaping— _cabriole, sauté, passé—_ like his body meant nothing to him. Like it didn’t matter that he was too tall or too wide, he simply _danced._

It made something in her answer, the urge to climb up on the stage and get up there with him, to dance like that. Thinking of her own schoolgirl-esque tendues and pliés, she felt young. 

Her grandfather was murmuring, “We’ll meet him, after the dance.”

Her grandfather was true to his word, and after the ballet they dutifully retired to the ballet’s private lounge room, the funds for which her grandfather had personally donated. In her patent leather shoes and her black dress and cream cardigan, her hair pushed back in a tidy chignon, she felt even younger. 

The Ogana-Solos came in, wafting in on the sound of laughter outside and looking experienced and savvy in their dark evening wear. 

Mitaka told her that Han Solo had been a cubist painter, which in Rey’s mind (freshly-scrubbed, on holiday from prep-school) was the most ludicrous profession in the entire world. His mother, though, was a famous ballerina, now the director of the Alderaan Studio, and seeing her in person made Rey feel absolutely giddy.

She’d been trained in Europe, not the Russian school that Rey attended. But even so, she was a breathtaking dancer. Of course this radiant, searing woman was Ben’s mother. He must be the luckiest boy in the entire planet. 

Han and Leia looked at Rey with intense, scrutinizing expressions and twinkles in their eyes that Rey didn’t entirely trust. They were like her grandfather in the sense that they had influence and money, obviously. But they were just different enough that Rey didn’t know what to expect from them. 

“I understand you’re a dancer yourself,” Leia Organa said. 

Rey’s eyes flicked to Ben, standing there in sweatpants and too-long hair. Up close, he looked much younger. Fifteen? Could he really be the same age as she was? It seemed impossible. 

“I dance,” Rey demurred. 

“She’s a prodigy,” her grandfather insisted. “She was the Youth America Grand Prix finalist.”

“I didn’t _win,_ ” Rey murmured, nearly glowing with suppressed pride. 

“Not yet,” said her grandfather, putting a hand on her shoulder. 

“Ben won the Prix de Lausanne, what was it, two years ago?” said Han Solo. But it wasn’t like he was asking to brag. It was like he honestly could not remember. 

Ben looked annoyed, and Rey guessed her suspicion was correct when he said, “Yeah, I did.” 

Rey risked a glance up at Ben, who had an odd expression on his face. An air of detached disinterest, like winning such a prestigious contest didn’t matter to him in the least. 

Male dancers were always liars. 

And Leia Organa was saying, “You should bring her by the studio sometime. We’d love to have her for summer session.” 

Rey and Ben looked at each other, eyes narrowed. 

Ballet was competitive, there was no doubt about that. Though an individual dancer might be part of a larger performance, it was an individual sport. Ben was good. Too good. Good without even trying, without even caring. She could already tell that about him.

But he was also… unabashed. Solid. He looked like the sort of person she could run sprinting towards, full force, with the expectation of being caught in a perfect lift. 

They were going to destroy each other. 

“I’d like to visit,” Rey said, turning her face to her grandfather, who gave her a somewhat startled look.

“You’re trained in the Russian school, dearest. You’d be hopelessly off-rhythm in an American academy.”

“I can do it,” she heard herself insist. 

“Sounds like that’s settled,” Han said, full of the bluff good humor of a man whose primary interest was ending conversations. 

“I’ll send a packet to the house,” Leia said quickly.

And so, Rey went. 

* * *

Then they were sixteen (they were _both_ sixteen for the month of June), and it was summer session. Sunlight streamed through the massive french doors, letting in the first stirrings of baking heat. The speckled glass of the Alderaan School’s practice room mirrors reflected the hazy suggestion of their forms. 

Ben was jumping, practicing his leaps and lifts, spinning out in front of her as she sat eating a granola bar nearby, her tights already fraying. But it was summer, and Ben had a car now, and he could pick her up and drop her off, and grandfather wouldn’t lecture her about her tights if he didn’t _see_ them. 

Ben cursed, grunting in frustration as he failed to stick a landing, his form stiff and unwieldy as he tried to perfect the difficult jump. Moves like that were hard for him. He was good at lifts, which is why they were partnered, but bad at jumps, which is why they were here. 

He gave her a sour look, putting his hands on his knees and panting, “Why’d you pick a pas de deux anyway?” 

“To annoy you specifically,” Rey said, crinkling her wrapper as loudly as possible just to annoy him. “You look tired, want a chewy bar?” 

“That’s not real food,” he said flatly, coming to sit beside her before flopping onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “We should get real breakfast.”

“Probably,” Rey said absently, thinking of what her grandfather would say about her diet these days, with its convenience and its sugar.

“You deserve better than granola bars for breakfast,” Ben declared, apparently to nobody in particular, because he didn’t look at her when he said it.

“Maybe,” Rey said, her eyes tracing over the way he was sprawled back on the floor, his dark hair pooling on the parquet floor, sweaty and flushed. He’d grown since last summer. Maybe she had too. 

A bird called in the distance. Rey held out a Chewy bar to him. Ben took it anyway. 

* * *

Then they were seventeen, and she was partnered with Poe Dameron in Swan Lake, and he was lifting her up in the beautiful, architectural way that Poe Dameron was good at. Rey hovered in the air, and everyone around them held their breath, and when Poe set her down and spun her around on pointe, as delicate as a jewelry box ballerina, her grin was as incandescent as the sun.

The room applauded, and Poe pulled her into a rough hug and she mussed his hair, and when they pulled apart, she looked over for Ben. 

He was scowling.

And she scowled back.

They didn’t practice together that summer.

* * *

They were eighteen and _uproariously_ drunk after the closing party for their summer show, giggling on half-finished pre-mixed margaritas, running barefoot down the long, mirrored hallways of Alderaan School’s main lobby. 

It was dark, just the hanging pendant lanterns illuminated for safety, and the ticking of the hallway clock was like a small drum beat as Rey spun in circles, counting to ten. 

“Come out come out wherever you are,” she gasped, giddy and dizzy and stumbling forward towards the sound of shuffling footsteps. Rose— _god, she loved Rose, Rose was her best friend, she hoped to god they’d both get jobs after this—_ was probably hiding in the draperies in the front reading room where Leia Organa sometimes had conferences with parents. 

Giggling, she padded unevenly down the hallway, moonlight filtering through the windows. 

“Rey?” 

She turned around. 

It wasn’t Rose, it was Ben, standing at the end of the hallway with his evening jacket draped over his arm. He blinked at her in surprise and the hallway swooned around her. 

“What are you doing?”

“Hide n’seek,” she said, trying desperately not to sound drunk.

“Need help?”

Rey stared at him. “I’m feeling...dizzy.” 

“Did you have too much champagne?”

Rey snorted. “You sound like my grandfather.”

Ben frowned, and he looked _offended._ That thought was somehow hilarious to her, so she laughed, because it felt good to laugh at him. 

“You know what? You think you’re better than me because you’re _serious_ , but it’s okay to have _fun_ sometimes,” Rey accused. The hem of her white party dress ghosted across the back of her legs, her gossamer shawl thrown haphazardly around her arms. 

She stood on her toes, pretending to be on pointe. “Look.” 

To demonstrate she spun around, lifting her arms. 

On any other day, ballet felt almost like _math_. Precise and calculated, with each tiny movement serving an important purpose. It was deliberate and intentional, trained by repetition. But tonight, just for tonight, ballet was just for the joy of it. 

She spun in a small circle with her arms up, keeping her focus on Ben, turning her head only at the last minute. 

“Very good,” Ben said calmly. 

Rey came to a stop, and they looked at each other for a moment. Even though they were a full ten feet apart, the look in his eyes was piercing enough to reach even her sloshy brain. 

“If I ran at you, would you catch me?”

Ben blinked. 

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Grand jeté. You— you were practicing.” 

He looked away. “Ah. Didn’t amount to anything, did it?” 

“But if I ran at you. You could catch me.”

It felt suddenly important to confirm this, to get it right. 

He nodded, draping his jacket over one shoulder as if to free his hands. 

“Yeah, Rey. I could catch you.”

A third voice called. Kaydel, from upstairs. “Rey, I’m booooored.”

The moment snapped. Rey staggered back, feeling exposed and raw in some new and strange way. She turned around and fled, falling almost accidentally into a _pas de couru_ step.

* * *

A year later and they were standing together in the rehearsal room of the Coruscant City Ballet Corps, Rey nearly bouncing in excitement as Ben rolled his eyes. 

“Everyone’s going to know you’re in your first season.”

“Oooooh, imagine if people thought I _liked_ something,” Rey said, inching forward in the line to pick up their badges and get signed in with the other new dancers, who slouched with dignified composure or giggled with whatever of their friends had also scored a coveted spot as a member of the ballet. 

They looked nice. Maybe they would all be friends. 

“We’re _co-workers,_ so we have to be friends again.”

Ben scowled. “We’re going to be doing the Nutcracker every Christmas for the rest of our lives.”

“Oh, but you’re such a cute Rat King,” she said, giving him a wry smile that Ben didn’t answer. 

Rey’s phone blinked in her hands, beaming up at her.

“God, don’t answer that,” Ben grumbled. 

“You know he gets annoyed when I don’t,” Rey said.

“Which is _why_ you shouldn’t reply.”

“You don’t live with him,” Rey snapped, annoyed.

“Neither do you,” Ben said quietly, giving her a look.

It took a second for Rey to remember what he was talking about. And then the sense of shock and surprise hit her all over again as it finally dawned on her that she was finally, actually moved out of her grandfather’s house. 

It still didn’t seem real. Like at any moment her grandfather would change his mind, call her back to the house, take it all away.

“This is your time,” Ben said quietly. “You got this job all on your own.” 

Rey nodded, anxious as hell. He put his hand on the small of her back, and guided them forward another step towards the front.

* * *

And then they were twenty, and it was Christmas, and they were indeed in the Nutcracker. Rey was wearing a pink leotard and a tulle skirt the color of peonies, a headpiece of artificial flowers in her hair.

Everything about it filled her with delight. 

The looks of joy on the faces of the people in the audience, the feeling of security in trust in the other dancers in the Waltz, the way Paige had winked at her with a secret, shared glee that said “this is our first show, we did it, we’re here,” and Rey hadn’t been able to stifle the smile on her face. 

She felt beautiful. She felt radiantly, truly beautiful.

Giddy after the show, she’d run up to Ben with impetuous, heedless delight and threw her arms around him, and he caught her and laughed in that diffident, faintly surprised way of his. 

She pressed her face into his costume, and murmured into his shoulder as they just hugged like that, blanketed in the shadows. 

“I feel like I could _fly_ ,” she whispered, just to him.

“Maybe you should,” he said back, and lowered his face to the top of her head. “You… you deserve it.” 

She turned her face up to look at him, startled by his nearness. In the darkness of the wings, with the set anchors and ropes, the ladders up to the cats above, the wires carefully wrangled into bundles so as not to pose a trip-hazard, the frantic corralling of dancers, Rey felt like she was a single speck of illuminated dust, hovering in a grand ballroom. 

Ben had a look on his face, kind of soft and unlike him. She didn’t kiss him, but it felt like one of those moments where she _could._

Instead, they went out into the lobby, Rey in her full makeup and costume like the other female dancers to take photos with the kids who came in droves, their bright cheeked faces glowing with excitement to touch the soft tulle, stroke the flowers pinned to her bodice. 

It felt like magic. It was. 

Her grandfather approached, dressed in his impeccable winter evening wear. He already had his hat on, a cool smile on his face. Against the sleek lobby with its marble floors and huge windows revealing the dark expanse of the river beyond, he looked like something out of another era. Elegant in that sharp way of his. 

Rey got to her feet, ushering the little girls away.

“I remember that costume,” he said. “They had them made in the nineties I believe. Seems they’ve finally replaced those drooping artificial flowers. Do you know, in Saint Petersburg they use only real, live flowers. Takes the dancers a full hour to get dressed.”

“Sounds impractical,” Rey said, quiet again. 

“But worth it,” grandfather said.

“Mr. Palpatine,” said a voice from behind her, and Rey turned to see Ben jogging up, dressed in the clothes he came in. A dark turtleneck tucked into black slacks, a tan wool coat draped over his shoulders. 

“Ah, young Solo,” her grandfather said. “Very well done out there. Watch those knees, my boy.”

Ben didn’t react except to say, “Rey, can I give you a lift home?” 

Grandfather acted like Ben hadn’t spoken, waving distractedly to someone who passed by them. 

“She’s wasted on them. _Wasted_. One day, she’ll get a real solo. Until then, you’ll both continue to be a light amongst the shadows.”

That sort of compliment might have felt good once. She might have wanted it. But something about it felt hollow. Like a little of the joy was seeping out of her, pooling on the floor under her. 

Ben put his hand on the small of her back and gave her that same look that was a frown but somehow _not._

“Yes, I’d like a ride home,” she told Ben. 

Her grandfather shrugged. “Well, I’ll be off. See you for dinner on Friday, my dear. And by all means, bring your friend. We’re having lamb skewers.”

Sheev Palpatine— aging dancer, philanthropist, and Rey’s only living family member— walked away, shaking the occasional hand and smiling beatifically at the local ballet haute-monde who knew him from his own dancing days. 

Ben grunted, low and quiet as they both watched her grandfather depart in silence. “I don’t like the way he talks about the ballet. I don’t think he understands what it’s really about.” 

“What _is_ it about?” Rey asked, shaking off the odd, chilled effect of her grandfather’s tacit condescension.

Ben set his jaw and looked directly at her. “ _Art._ ” 

Rey smiled, trying to come off as diffident and unconcerned, even though she _wasn’t._

“Okay, so I’m definitely not bringing you with me to dinner.” 

“Scared I’d fight with your old man?”

“No,” Rey said, tucking her arm in his and giving him her brightest playbill smile. “I’m scared you’d _win.”_

* * *

Her grandfather’s voice in her ear. 

“I’ve told you how these things work—”

“This isn’t Saint Petersburg, grandfather. It doesn’t work like—”

“—turn down one role and they’ll deny you the next one. It’s how you end up blacklisted. You can’t simply allow a mere physical impediment—” 

Rey’s voice was hot, stinging like the tears in her eyes. “It’s a sprained tendon.”

His voice was whip sharp. “Did Ekaterina Maximova stop when she broke her wrist? What about when the Soviets jailed her father?”

A long silence. “No.”

“Will you?” 

Rey brushed a tear away. “No.”

Grandfather’s voice softened. “The role of Juliet is a tremendous victory for you, my dear. This is a huge opportunity. You mustn’t let your body slow you down. Ballet is sculpture made mobile.”

Rey glanced up at the doorway. Ben was standing there, his own copy of the cast list gripped in his hand. 

Her voice was weak. “Ballet is about art.”

“Exactly,” crowed her grandfather. 

She hung up.

* * *

Most people agreed it was the recording of their performance as Romeo and Juliet that first put them into the public view. 

For the first time in its history, the ballet filmed and posted an entire ballet onto YouTube. They hired a professional production company to film it, and the original intent was just to sell copies to people who came to see the show. It was a gift shop product. It was probably an intern who suggested it be posted to YouTube for free for a weekend as a promotional event, but the response was so immense (as was the ad revenue) that it was kept up on a full time basis.

Rose was giddy when she came into rehearsal, clutching her phone in one hand and an iced americano in the other. Rey was stretching, rolling her ankles in deliberate, calm circles the way they’d taught her in the Russian school. As a child she’d done it so much she could probably repeat the motion in her sleep, the sound of the taxis on the cobblestone streets of Saint Petersburg rolling around in her head. 

“Rey!” Rose squeaked, yanking Rey out of her thoughts so abruptly that she squeaked in surprise. Across the room, Ben’s head shot up from his own stretches, locked on her in that way he had. 

“You’re _famous,_ ” Rose declared, pushing the phone into her hands.

It was YouTube comments on the recording of the ballet. 

> _Does anyone else feel like Romeo and Julie have like, major chemistry?_
> 
> _Omg i’m getting scott and tessa vibes from this?? Anyone??_
> 
> _Why is everyone so horny for these two_
> 
> _Ben Solo is such a hottie wtf his ANKLES_
> 
> _I don’t get it because he doesn’t have a ballet body exactly but like when he picks her up in the lift and just spins her around i got actual butterflies i stg_
> 
> _Me and my dance team watched this and i ship it_
> 
> _Oh wow. Oh. I’m gay?_

Rey shoved the phone back into Rose’s hands, her cheeks flaming in a way that made her feel extremely embarrassed. Finn leaned over and looked, giving Rey a sidelong glance. He rarely missed things, and he was no doubt looking at Rey’s heated cheeks. 

“I have to do this dance with him for the whole season,” Rey whispers. 

Finn shrugs. “You’re both very good, and you’re playing romantic leads. It’s probably just going to stay in the comments.”

* * *

It didn’t stay in the comments. 

* * *

** Ballet News Weekly **

> **10/01/2017 -** BALLET COSTARS WHO HAVE CHEMISTRY IRL 
> 
> **11/15/2017 -** “YOU SHOULD SEE HOW THEY LOOK AT EACH OTHER” - BENREY FANS REACT TO AUSTIN DEBUT OF ROMEO AND JULIET
> 
> **12/1/18 -** A CHRISTMAS ENGAGEMENT FOR BALLET’S FAVORITE “FRIENDS”? 

* * *

Rey was talking to a local journalist, Ben at her side, both of them in their third act costumes and full makeup. Ben looked sullen and grumpy, as ever, and Rey was smiling in the light of what felt like ten thousand floodlights.

In reality it was just _one_ studio light brought into the lobby to interview them as the promotion for the show’s closing weeks. 

The brightly smiling reporter said, “Just one more question. You’ve taken the internet by storm, it seems! How does that feel?” 

Rey grinned. “It’s been weird seeing gifs of myself on Buzzfeed, but we’re just happy so many people are enjoying the ballet.”

The reporter chuckled, like Rey had said something tremendously funny. “Of course, some people are saying that the popularity isn’t about the ballet, but the performers themselves. Are you two enjoying the limelight?” 

Ben snorted. Rey jabbed him with her elbow. 

“It’s always nice to feel appreciated,” Rey said brightly.

The reporter gave them a knowing smile. “We’ve had _countless_ emails asking, so I have to put the question—” 

Under his breath, Ben muttered, “— _do you?—”_

“—are you two a couple? What’s the relationship status like?” 

Rey opened her mouth, but Ben finished before she could. “Relationship status is _none of your business._ ” 

* * *

It was different when they danced. 

Prokofiev’s waltzes struck dark, thrilling melodies into the shadowy theaters, and Rey and Ben would swirl around each other, coming together and breaking apart until their final, ultimate death on stage. 

The part that Rey always liked best was when Romeo and Juliet first meet in person. Ben, dressed in his masquerade costume, masked and handsome, would bend his head and press a kiss to her hands as Rey lifted herself on one foot, her leg arched behind her. 

The world was reduced to the point of balance of her hand, held tightly in Ben’s, and the pointe of her ballet shoe. Two points. Him and her. He would kiss her on the hand, and it would be enough. It would be worth it, for the tenderness in his eyes as he looked at her. 

And then he would die, and she would rise to weep over his body, and it seemed to go on like that forever. 

* * *

When they went on tour, everything got worse. 

The ballet was enormously popular, and they sold out theaters in every city they visited. 

Rey would dance, and Ben would dance, and then they would die together on stage, and then they would go out for dinner with the cast, trying town specialties and doing press with the local journalists for the show.

And then after each interview, where the same rote jokes were made about Rey and Ben’s minor celebrity status as a real-person ship that titillated the internet, and they would deny that they were a couple and call an Uber and ride back to the hotel in silence, Ben staring out the window.

After one such occasion, Ben looked blisteringly annoyed, and she wondered if he was sick of this. If he regretted partnering with her. If he wished they were back in Coruscant. If he wished he wasn’t doing Romeo and Juliet, and then the Nutcracker, and then Swan Lake, and then _whatever_ show they were assigned that the ballet thought might be profitable. 

She reached into her bag. 

“Hey, do you want a chewy bar?” Rey said. 

He glanced at the foil wrapped packet in her hands. Then up to her face.

“Thanks, but no.” 

Rey rubbed her thumb against the back of her hand, imagining that she could somehow still feel the ghost of his lips there. 

* * *

Rey was panting in the wings, the main stage ablaze with dancing Montagues and Capulets for the benefit of the ballet-going citizens of Toronto looked on. 

Rey winced, sitting heavily on a chair as Poe briskly massaged her leg. Rose gave her a water bottle and some tylenol, and nobody looked her in the eye. 

Ben arrived, dressed in his costume for the next scene, his eyes flicking from Poe’s hands to her face. 

She gave him a grimacing smile.

“Are you in pain?” he said, very quietly. 

“Yes,” she murmured, conceding the point just to him. “But a job is a job, right?” 

Ben glanced down at Poe. “Here, let me.”

Crouching down, he took Poe’s place at her feet, rubbing his hands with firm, gentle movements up her calf and ankle, massaging her swollen tendon. Rey gripped the chair, fighting off a wave of nausea against the pain. 

But it was good. It was necessary, and after a few minutes of this, the feeling of pain eased slightly. 

“You okay?” he murmured, looking up at her from the ground. 

In the darkness of the wings, the swelling music muffled only slightly by the heavy curtains, the silk of her costume pooling around her, it felt strangely intimate to look at him. 

She leaned down slightly, bringing their faces close together. “This is so painful.”

He stared into her eyes, his lips parting. And then, as the music swelled to crescendo and the audience broke into applause, he let go of her.

“Be more careful,” he said coolly, getting to his feet. 

He didn’t touch her again after that. 

* * *

The tour ended, thank god, and when they got back to the studio for their final performances of the season (a week’s worth of Romeo and Juliet before they closed the show for good), Rey sat on the floor of the dance studio and scored the soles of her shoes, miserable, as Rose and Paige argued about their jumps. 

It was the same as it always was. Except it wasn’t. Ben barely spoke to her outside of what was absolutely necessary. 

After their rehearsal that day— it was really more of a rehash so that the resident dancers could get used to the dance that the traveling troupe had taken over— Rey walked to her locker and grabbed for her phone. 

Around her, everyone was packing up, chattering amiably as people drew sweatpants over their thin, stretchy workout clothes to face the cold weather outside. Rose and Paige bickered about whether or not Paige’s pointe shoes were _actually_ shot or not. 

All of this, Rey ignored, because she had two missed calls, six texts, and four emails. Great. Dialing her grandfather’s number, she braced one hand against the lockers for support.

“Granddad,” she said tersely, smiling woodenly as if even now he could see her grim expression and might scold her for looking too sour.

“Well well, if it isn’t my only granddaughter,” he said loftily. “Deigning to return my calls.”

“I had practice, granddad, I’m sorry.”

“Of course you did. Well, now that you’re back in the city, I wanted to speak to you about an opportunity. Your season is up and I expect they’ll be renewing your contract after all the money you made them,” he said briskly. 

Rey leaned against the locker, closing her eyes. “Grandpa.”

“—but I want you to consider the auditions for the Bolshoi. I spoke with the director personally and she assured me that you’re welcome to audition. We can have you out there next week.”

“You know I love my company,” Rey demurred. “I’m not looking to move.”

“Think of your career,” he said briskly. “You need strategy. You won’t be young forever. You have a platform at the moment, you could get any tragedy you wanted.” 

Rey hesitated. She thought of the Nutcracker. About the rumor going around that she was up for the Sugarplum Fairy, or Clara. About the pink costume and the glittering tiara, about the smiles on the faces of the little girls who ran up to her, breathless and delighted just to look at her. How _good_ that felt. 

Her grandfather’s voice was like the pluck of a bowstring. “You need to do something _modern_.” 

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

There was close to zero chance she’d actually do it. After all, this company was her life. And the idea of leaving here, leaving her dance friends that she’d known all her life… it filled her with grief for a loss she hadn’t even _felt_ yet. 

She pictured Ben’s face the first time she’d seen it. Sullen and reluctant. She pictured him as she’d come to know him, stubborn and warm. High-minded but grounded. At that moment—it was like she’d conjured him up– Ben walked by. His brow was set, and he didn’t even look at her.

“Come by the house tomorrow,” grandfather said. “We’ll talk about it.”

She hung up, distracted by Ben. Distracted by the future and what this all might mean.

Out on the street, Rey jogged after Ben

“Hey,” she called, feeling strangely nauseous. “Ben!”

He turned, his expression impassive. In his dark jeans and his white sweater, he looked blocky and stark as he strode down the street. He slowed his steps only marginally. “Hey, Rey. How’s it going?” 

“Oh, you know, my grandfather’s trying to send me back to Russia,” Rey said, going for light-hearted. 

Ben gave her a sharp look. “You love it here. This is your place. You— you really fit in here, everyone loves you.”

He sounded so intense, so passionate, that for a second it was like talking to the old Ben. 

Rey grinned. “Yeah. And anyway, how could I deprive you of another Christmas of dancing the Nutcracker, right?” 

Ben looked directly ahead of him. “Rey, I’m not renewing my contract.”

She came to a dead halt in the middle of the street, one hand shooting out to grab him by the upper arm. “You’re— you’re not serious?” 

“I’m tired of the media circus, I’m tired of the Nutcracker, I’m tired of unoriginal stagings of shows everyone has already seen.” 

“But it’s not— it’s not about that. It’s about rhythm, and routine, and—” 

“I don’t want _routine,_ ” Ben said, too loud. In the square they’d stopped in, the dimming evening light threw long shadows across their bodies from the glow of just-now-illuminated street lamps. “I’m sorry, Rey, but I can’t keep doing this. This thing where we dance and get patted on the head and people talk about us behind our back, and you… Look, you’re cut out for this, I’m not.” 

“But you’re good at it,” Rey said, fear clenching in her chest like a foreign hand. Something was falling away from her. “You— me, we make a good team.”

“How can you say that?” he bit out. “We barely talk anymore.” 

Heat rising in her chest, she stood her ground. “I _want_ to talk to you. I do. You won’t let me in anymore.”

The laugh he let out was as bitter as it was short. “Right. _Right._ You can pretend you don’t understand—” 

“I don’t,” Rey pleaded, taking a step forward. “I don’t want things to change.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sick of the Nutracker and Romeo and Juliet. I don’t want to be some… some aesthetic token for the rest of my career. I want to make real art, something modern and athletic, something I’d be _good_ at—” 

“You’re an _artist,_ ” Rey said, nearly shouting. “You’re strong and brave. You’re a talented dancer, and I love performing with you.”

His nostrils flared, and he looked at her like there was a shard of ice in his heart. “I can’t keep doing this routine with you for the rest of my life, Rey.”

“It’s _our_ routine,” Rey heard herself whisper. “We made it.”

He was already walking away from her. 

* * *

** Ballet News Weekly - Strictly on Pointe Updates Straight from the Stage  **

> 01/01/2018 
> 
> AMERICAN CONTEMPORARY BALLET LOS ANGELES SIGNS BALLET HEART-THROB BEN SOLO FOR 20/21 SEASON
> 
> 02/15/2018 
> 
> HEARTBREAK FOR AMERICA - RUSSIA'S MARIINSKY THEATER SIGNS SOLOIST REY PALPATINE 

* * *

**ACT 2**

* * *

Rey’s apartment in Saint Petersburg had a balcony that overlooked the street below, and from it she stood in the blistering cold, wrapped in a cashmere pashmina, watching the sun set.

At her side, Phasma leaned against the door, smoking. 

“You’ll get the hang of it,” she said. “It just takes a little practice. I was overwhelmed by the Russian instruction method too, at first.”

Rey snorted, thinking of the way her grandfather had taught her, the rigor and the emphasis on expression and mechanical precision. “It’s not the teaching method.”

“Then why do you look so miserable?” Phasma said, not unkindly, putting out her cigarette on her coffee cup saucer. 

Rey turned around. “I’m homesick, I guess.”

Phasma gave her a smile. 

“Missing the warm weather? We have summer here, too, you know.”

“I guess.”

“Then come inside, jesus. You look like you’re turning blue.”

She felt like it, too.

* * *

After a year, her Russian had improved significantly, and most of the time Rey didn’t even think about him. She danced modern ballets, new debuts, more fresh, cultivated pieces that gave her a reputation as a stylish, dynamic dancer. 

As the years passed, she was given solo roles, having the honor to debut as the lead in several entirely new works. The reviews were bright. 

Blue Tango.

Contretemps. 

Cold Spring. 

Her grandfather, who still visited his apartment in Saint Petersburg once a quarter to see her and check up on her performances, had never been more proud. 

And Rey was proud too. 

She had a reputation in the industry as someone who was reliable, precise, and remarkably self-contained for an American who got her start in cliche holiday works that pandered to tourists. 

The theater favored putting her in tragedies, her choreographers working her into caustic right-angles, tidy _pas de bourree_ steps that fascinated audiences in their mechanical precision.

She learned _so_ much. The Russian method taught her soul, taught her form, and polished her from an unfinished piece of seaglass into something sparkling. Her instructors were strict, but caring. 

Audiences came to see her, and her regular dance partner Sergey bent and threw her into the air, and even though the tragedies ended in much the same way, none of it felt anything like Romeo and Juliet.

She had never felt like more of a sculpture made into movement. 

* * *

When she saw the poster in front of the Bolshoi, she thought her Russian must have failed her. 

_Contemporary Exhibition. One night only._

And there, on the cover of the poster, was the smoldering intensity of Ben Solo staring straight out at her. He was photographed in the air, his body bent as if he’d thrown himself off the stage with all the strength of his body. Not a jette, but an explosion. 

She didn’t remember walking to the rehearsal room, she simply arrived there, stunned. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Phasma said, giving her a bracing pat on the back. 

Rey just swallowed. 

* * *

When the visiting ballet troupe arrived, Rey was waiting for them.

She spotted him instantly as the group warmed up on stage, preparing their moves for that night’s exhibition. 

The show was being marketed as a revi

ew of American ballet styles, and Ben’s face was plastered over half the city. Despite this, she was unprepared for the sight of him. Even standing at the back of the theater, even cloaked in darkness as she was, he still took her breath away.

Broader. Stronger. Older.

He was in the middle of the stage, dressed in gray sweatpants and a t-shirt, his intense gaze trained on the stage manager directing the installation of sets. 

Someone must have called his name, because he turned his head and looked off into the wings. While his attention was distracted, Rey crept forward, her eyes fixed on his face. 

Looking at him felt so _good_ after so much time. 

When he looked back, his gaze landed on her. Everything got very quiet, or maybe very loud, she wasn’t sure, all she was aware of was the roaring of noise in her ear and the sudden ringing sensation that she was caught up in something. It reminded her of jumping, of being kissed, of the swish of silk skirts. 

“Hi,” she said, despite the enormous distance between them, despite the lights and the stage.

“Hi,” he said. 

* * *

“You were incredible,” Rey said, walking along the river with Ben. It was night, and his show had gone off without a hitch. A full house. She’d been in the wings, watching him move. 

It was so strange, seeing his new style in person. It was all angles and sudden stops, the movements punctuation instead of a sentence. He was the man she knew, but it was like he was speaking an entirely different language. 

But after the show, he’d come up to her, changed out of his costume, and they’d agreed to take a walk. 

He chuckled. “Always weird dancing on new marley. I spent the whole show worrying I was going to slip.”

Rey nodded. “God, remember that stage in Tampa with the—” 

“That _awful_ plastic stuff,” Ben said, laughing. “I nearly ate it during the Waltz of the Knights.”

“You had that bruise for like six weeks.”

He smiled as they looked at each other, the nostalgia like a warm balm across the aching wound between them. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck the way he used to do when they were teenagers in school, and he didn’t know how to do all the steps yet. 

“Does your ankle still hurt you?” He asked it casually, with none of the intensity of that last time they’d spoken to each other.

She blinked. “You remember that?” 

He looked at his feet, the wet concrete from the spring thaw laying on top of the city. “I remember it, yeah. I remember all of it.” 

“It’s healed,” she murmured. “It’s all… Ben, it’s all fine now.”

_I forgive you._

_Do you forgive me?_

They walked along in silence. And then, like nothing had ever happened, he turned his head and smiled down at her in the way that he used to. 

“I guess it is. Anyway, some things haven’t changed. Your tights are still ripped.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Talk to me when you get an _actual_ pair of shoes. I can’t believe you still wear those beat up old Nikes.”

“You still think they’re cool, don’t even lie.”

She did think they were cool. They ambled off into the night. 

* * *

He stayed in Russia for two more days before his troupe departed for Munich, and they even got to rehearse together in an impromptu joint rehearsal between the American and Russian groups.

The collaboration between the two was unusual, the Russian and Contemporary styles of ballet as different as ice and water, which was the whole point of the exercise. 

Rey, dressed in traditional white leotard and pink tights, got up on pointe and attempted to follow the example of one of the American primas, who stuttered out a choppy, fresh pirouette that had her nearly toppling over as the different positioning of her leg interrupted the familiar movement. 

Ben was there too, seated on the floor a few feet away, his eyes trained on her every movement. 

The American instructor gave her a warm smile. “You’re overthinking the movement; even though the foot is positioned differently, the movement is essentially the same. Just keep your eyes on a fixed spot— pretend you’re back at the academy.”

Rey locked eyes with Ben. Then she began to spin again, as if for the first time. 

* * *

When he left for Munich, she waited on the Mariinsky steps and watched the bus depart. She cried there as the spring sun bloomed across the city. This time, she knew _exactly_ why leaving him hurt so badly. 

* * *

The spring was a blur. Her heart ached, and it was all she could do to wake up, workout, eat, and sleep. 

After her final show of the season, Rey scrubbed her face of her makeup and emerged onto the street, walking the ten blocks to her grandfather’s stylish apartment, ducking between the city’s beautiful buildings and the warm pools of street light until she buzzed up to her grandfather’s place.

She was greeted at the door by the sound of jazz music playing, the clink of glasses, the smell of roses in the air. She shrugged off her black coat, glancing at her hair and face in the hall mirror before making her appearance to whoever was visiting her grandfather this evening.

When she walked into the art-nouveau style parlor, she hesitated. The room contained about a dozen people enjoying the view of the city out the large windows, but one figure in particular made her catch her breath.

Leia Organa, standing in a very chic pantsuit, was drinking champagne and staring out the window as a bureaucrat in a dark suit spoke animatedly to her. For a minute, Rey was transported to a moment a lifetime ago. A voice like a music box echo sparkled through her brain.

_“You should bring her by the studio sometime. We’d love to have her for summer session.”_

Rey was so arrested by the wash of nostalgia, the sudden memory of the smell of waxed floors, old marley, and new tights, that she didn’t even notice her grandfather approaching until he was almost on top of her, arms outstretched, beaming. 

“My _darling_ girl, there you are, have you seen the reviews?” 

“No, I haven’t. Is that Leia Organa?” 

“Ah, yes, she’s in town on a scouting mission or something,” and then, dropping his voice very low, “That studio is still around, if you can believe it. She’s trying to get funding to save her floundering little studio. I told her, I said, _if you have no money then stop admitting so many scholarship students_ , but she only rolled her eyes at me. Can’t pay her instructors anything, poor dear. No wonder she’s recruiting.” 

Leia looked up, as if she had somehow heard the words. A warm smile spread across the older woman’s face, faded but just as sturdy. Dazed, Rey waved back. 

* * *

Two days later, they met at a cafe. Rey _begged_ for the job. 

* * *

**ACT 3**

* * *

“There you are, on your toes,” Rey said, bending down to gently adjust Margo’s posture. “Lift your chin— _there,_ look at you! You look like a real corps-de-ballet member, now.” 

Margo beamed. Rey took a few steps back, looking at the collection of small, eager kids. In the bright, airy studio, they looked golden and young, fierce as lions. 

“Alright, children,” Rey said, clapping her hands together. “Turn and look at yourselves in the mirror. What are you?” 

In unison and with the strange mix of sarcasm and enthusiasm peculiar to twelve-year-olds everywhere, they mumbled in unison, “Ballerinas.” 

“That’s right,” she called, turning off the music. “And what do ballerinas do?” 

“Art,” they mumbled, with less derision this time. 

They were unfocused today, excited for their Christmas breaks home with their families. When they returned, they would be different. Older.

She supposed she would be, too. 

“No matter what your results were this exam season, never forget who you are.”

She looked at them all, holding the silence in the room for a moment too long. These years were so precious. They didn’t know that yet, but she did. 

“Alright, enjoy your holidays,” she said, grinning at them. As the little troupe made for the doors, she pulled her sweater on and called after them. “Remember, if it feels wrong, it is wrong!”

They giggled, dutifully ignoring her, and she grinned after them. 

As the door shut and the last student filed out, the ringing silence felt suddenly too sharp. This would be the first Christmas she wouldn’t spend with her grandfather. The first Christmas that she had failed him so utterly as to have been exiled from his presence.

When Poe turned up at the Academy that night, grinning in that friendly, roving way of his, she was so happy to see him that she could have pelted him with ten hundred snowballs. 

“Look at you,” he gushed, taking off his coat and gripping her by the shoulders. “You look like a Christmas ornament.” 

She grinned. “What are you doing out here? Come to reminisce over our school days?”

“No, I came to make an appeal to you in person,” he said, sitting down in one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire.

Rey sat across from him, glancing out the window at the dark, snowy night beyond like she was waiting for someone else to pull up. “Okay, you have my attention. What’s up?”

“I need a favor,” Poe said apologetically. “We’re doing a showcase in town. Nothing fancy. Last minute, obviously, but we were wondering if you would be available to contribute a piece. It’s a benefit for the hospital.”

Rey blinked. “Oh, sure. Of course. What did you have in mind?”

Her thoughts raced over the loose collection of solos she was proficient in, mentally cataloguing the Academy’s costume bank for something that might fill in.

Poe’s next words stopped her racing thoughts in their track.

“Romeo and Juliet,” Poe said. “It would bring such an audience to have you there, because everyone loves your performance as Juliet.” 

Her throat felt like it might close up. Poe kept talking. “—not sure if you remember the choreography and I’m _sure_ you must be booked, but Ben said he would only do it if _you_ played Juliet which really puts me in a bind—” 

She gripped the arm chair. “Yes.” 

Poe snapped up, brightening. “You’ll do it?”

“I’ll do it,” she heard herself say. “I’d love to do it. I’d love—” 

She couldn’t get any other words out, after that. There was no way to express the torrent of her feelings, the drumbeat in her body that only said _Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben_. 

* * *

When Rey arrived at the theater the day of the show, she hardly knew what to think. It was a little community stage, _nothing_ like the massive Mariinsky Theater or the Coruscant Ballet Stage. There was no decoration, no costume shop, no bustling orchestra pit full of stylish musicians. They would rehearse the piece today, and perform it tonight, hopefully without _too_ much bungling.

They’d agreed to do the balcony scene, a lovely, romantic movement where Romeo and Juliet meet under the cover of moonlight. It had been Rey’s favorite number. She still knew the piece by heart, and she was massively relieved that number had been chosen and not the scene where they both died. 

Rey wasn’t sure she could handle one last time leaning over his body, crying over him. There had been enough of that. 

When she got to the stage for their rehearsal, he was waiting there for her. He was older still, now. Dressed in his workout clothes and shoes, his hair brushed back, his eyes expectant. 

“After all this time,” he said quietly, padding over to her. “You’re back at the Academy.”

She shrugged. “Sometimes it feels like I never left.”

“I know what you mean. I’m really happy for you, Rey.”

She couldn’t hide her grin. “I’m really happy for me, too.” 

“How’s LA?” she asked. 

He looked down. “I didn’t renew my contract.” 

“You didn’t?” 

“Yeah. I wanted… I wanted to come home. I need a rest. So I’m moving back here, to be near to the family, actually.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest. “That’s— wow, I mean, good for you.”

“I think my mom is hoping I’ll come work at the Academy.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Would you?” she said, breathless even though they were standing still. 

“What do you think?” he asked, quiet. “Is it… would it be a good idea?” 

“Yeah. It’s really nice. The kids and everything… it reminds me of why I loved ballet in the first place. Though, it does require you to rehearse the Nutcracker every year.”

She tried to sound diffident, but it didn’t work.

“My years doing the Nutcracker with you were the happiest days of my life,” he said quietly. 

Too embarrassed to respond, she ducked her head. “Well, think you can make it through one last performance of Romeo and Juliet? It’s for charity, right?” 

He shrugged. “I didn’t agree to this for charity’s sake.”

She felt her cheeks heat. He didn’t look away as she whispered, “Yeah. Neither did I.” 

* * *

They danced Romeo and Juliet for an audience of 200 people that night. It felt like they were the only two people in the room. 

The balcony scene, which had always been her favorite, seemed to arrive like something out of a dream. It didn’t matter that the music wasn’t live or that the costume had a few little holes in it. When they danced a pas-de-deux together on stage, Rey closed her eyes as Ben supported her, and breathed in the smell of him. 

He held her waist, clutching her, and when he spun her around on pointe it was like the past had never happened, and some part of them had been dancing this scene together for all the years they’d been apart. 

When she ended the spin and stared up at him, it was not as the character of Juliet that she leaned up and kissed him. It was not in the choreography. It wasn’t even on the beat of the music.

One minute she was standing there in his arms, a fixed point in the center of the world, and then he was leaning over her in an arch they’d done a hundred times, and she pressed her lips to his and kissed him. 

He faltered, his arms gripping her, his body powerful even in its shock, and he kissed her back. 

It felt like a leap, like the biggest jette in the history of time, like she was flying. 

It felt fitting, somehow, that for their last performance as Romeo and Juliet, neither of them had to die at all. 

_This time, they got to live._

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know much about ballet but I tried my hardest to research it!
> 
> I'm on twitter if you want! And please go wish Shannon a happy birthday! 
> 
> https://twitter.com/ViWiWrites  
> https://twitter.com/McCarterShanon
> 
> If you enjoyed the fic, I'd appreciate a comment and a kudos!


End file.
